oogood favour Sir R. B. with the present
address of Mr. John Eames. "Old fox," said Mr. Toogood;--"but then such
a stupid old fox! As if it was likely that I should have peached on
Johnny if anything was wrong." So Mr. Toogood sent his compliments to
Sir Raffle Buffle, and begged to inform Sir R. B. that Mr. John Eames
was away on very particular family business, which would take him
in the first instance to Florence;--but that from Florence he would
probably have to go on to Jerusalem without the loss of an hour.
"Stupid old fool!" said Mr. Toogood, as he sent off his reply by the
messenger.

CHAPTER XLIX

Near the Close

[Illustration]

I wonder whether any one will read these pages who has never known
anything of the bitterness of a family quarrel? If so, I shall have a
reader very fortunate, or else very cold-blooded. It would be wrong
to say that love produces quarrels; but love does produce those
intimate relations of which quarrelling is too often one of the
consequences,--one of the consequences which frequently seem to be so
natural, and sometimes seem to be unavoidable. One brother rebukes
the other,--and what brothers ever lived together between whom there
is no such rebuking?--then some warm word is misunderstood and hotter
words follow and there is a quarrel. The husband tyrannizes, knowing
that it is his duty to direct, and the wife disobeys, or only
partially obeys, thinking that a little independence will become
her,--and so there is a quarrel. The father, anxious only for his
son's good, looks into that son's future with other eyes than those
of his son himself,--and so there is a quarrel. They come very
easily, these quarrels, but the quittance from them is sometimes
terribly difficult. Much of thought is necessary before the angry man
can remember that he too in part may have been wrong; and any attempt
at such thinking is almost beyond the power of him who is carefully
nursing his wrath, lest it cool! But the nursing of such quarrelling
kills all happiness. The very man who is nursing his wrath lest it
cool,--his wrath against one whom he loves perhaps the best of all
whom it has been given him to love,--is himself wretched as long as
it lasts. His anger poisons every pleasure of his life. He is sullen
at his meals, and cannot understand his book as he turns its pages.
His work, let it be what it may, is ill done. He is full of his
quarrel,--nursing it. He is telling himself how much he